"I'm begging you sir, we should surrender! The fifth and seventh companies have been lost!"
Despite raising his voice to piercing levels, the Corporal's words fell on deaf ears.

"Nonsense! What the bloody hell is Muldoon's platoon doing? Pull the buggers back, then to the front !" The General barked out his orders, pompous as always.

"Sir...I think you should step outside." Mumbled the Corporal.

Pushing the tent flaps aside, the General stepped into the open air.

In perfect symphony echoed the sound of twenty rifles being cocked.

"...Jolly unsporting." He wavered, choking on his words.

Twenty shots rang out.

Stones rattled against the window frame, hurled gently by the paramour standing beneath. She stirred in her slumber, rising to open the shutters she instantly recognised man waiting.
Throwing on a dressing gown, she grabbed her keys and descended the rickety apartment building stairs. They creaked under her rushing stride, but carried her safely down to the arms of her lover below. She leapt at him, the shock of her full force throwing them both back onto the soft grass.

"You waited for me, just like we promised?" he whispered.

"You said you'd come back, a promise is a promise." 

The artist's loft was a mess, the pure and unadulterated chaos of creativity. He liked it that way. Between empty paint pots and the torn canvas strewn across the floors, it felt like home. The city around him, dark and bereft of colours, felt so empty. He never left his oasis of creativity.
Often he'd stare longingly at a shop girl just across the street. She was beautiful but he could never speak to her, it would shatter the illusion. Wistfully he stared as he put the finishing touches to her painting, and set it aside with all the others. 

“Come on now Tammy, lets try this again, from the top shall we?”, Miss Truman despaired at her young charges.

Once upon a time she’d been someone, a big musical producer, but now she was reduced to teaching kids drama. Another little one tugged at her ankle, they were certainly persistent. Perhaps if she’d been so equally persistent, she’d still be a success today.

“Yes Stephen, what is it?” she sighed.
“Can I be a horsie, miss?”
“No, Stephen, there are no horses in this play”.

What was so hard for children to understand about Phantom of the Opera, honestly?
 

A gentle breeze rustled through the trees, living off the land for these few years had softened the young woodsman's heart but heightened his senses. Every crack of a twig or shake of a branch would attract his attention, although he knew better than to stand and face an unseen foe. Though the disquiet he felt now was not from noise, but the lack of it, as an unerring silence blanketed the woods consuming every sound. He quickened his pace, his slow amble grew into a thundering sprint, silence enveloped him, the beast of the woods had found it's prey. 

She caressed his back, gently stroking the soft ridges just under his shoulder blades; they were still a little raw and he winced as her fingers rolled over them, but the broad smile never left his face.
Leaning in, she whispered.

"Was it worth it? Doing this for me?", she loved him but the guilt was still strong in her mind.

"I believe it was", he replied, "as a creature of belief, I feel ...justified."

Despite the conviction in his voice, he'd thought long and hard. He loved her even more as his stark white feathers floated to the floor.